"And we: spectators always, everywhere. Forever turned toward the world of objects, never outward. It fills us . We arrange it, then break down ourselves. " Under the canopy of the uncaring hand, trapped in the freeway sound of modern life. Displaced matter that I search for in the night sky. Vaccine in a shooting star. Cures in trees never ever touched reaching upward alongside. HEaring the loss like knees cracking. My brain a mockingbird for remembrance. Hands are paws for feeling, scratching the symbols that I'm only beginning to understand. But howling, this is the howling. This is hearing sounds unheard.